


sanctified

by blooddrool



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Demon!Elias, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, M/M, Oral Sex, oral sex inside a confessional while an unaware third party confesses, priest!peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blooddrool/pseuds/blooddrool
Summary: The penitent woman confesses that she has lied.  Elias, too, has lied.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 28
Kudos: 115





	sanctified

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the lonelyeyes discord crew and their insistence on the _two cakes_ rule.  
> thank u to [lenjamin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lenjamin) for the beta :*

Peter is administering reconciliation.

This is not odd. This is duty. This is proper — this is _ordained,_ just as Peter is. That is not to say he is very good at it. Elias has been through his confessional himself, a few times. One too many, Peter says. One too few, Elias thinks. But enough. Enough to know that Peter feels sick with it — with the closeness, the intimacy — always, growing sicker with every whispered sin and unearned pardon. The partition does little to muffle the voices of the penitent, no matter how thick the wicker, how opaque the screen. A great burden, to carry the secrets of a flock he cares not for. And a pity, to have no interest in weaponizing them.

Rather be done with them, he would. Rather dash them all upon the rocks of his self-imposed isolation, he would. Poor Peter, cast so far astray from the Apostle who once bore his name.

Elias, unseen as he is, watches a woman approach the confessional. Young. Unremarkable. Unappetizing. No more satisfying than a palate cleanser. But devout, and deeply.

The woman enters. Peter, on the other side, sighs his weary melancholy into the space where only Elias can hear.

The woman kneels. Elias decides that he will, as well.

“Bless me Father,” she begins, “for I have sinned.”

She has not confessed in over a month. She tells Father Lukas this, her guilt colored yellow like jaundice, like bile. She crosses herself, and Peter follows suit. And Elias seeps in with the dark. He bleeds under the door, in around the old hinges, gathers himself together with the shadows beneath Peter’s robes. Pools there. Until Peter’s calf twitches — he can feel it — and he drags himself into corporeality.

Peter’s eyes are very wide, and then very narrow. A sliver of light slices them through. Elias grins. His teeth catch the light with the same wet intensity.

The woman on the other side of the partition begins to speak. To confess. She has quarreled. Elias, too, has quarreled, and Peter looks like perhaps he’d like to. Elias wraps a hand around Peter’s ankle, shuffles on his knees, taps a talon against the soft space between tendon and bone. It chases a chill up Peter’s leg, and Elias knows this because he knows most everything about Peter. He knows that he could not care less about the woman opposite. He knows that he grows nauseated at the thought of sitting here another hour. He knows that Peter oftentimes thinks him both divine and demonic in equal measure. He knows that Peter knows he should not. He is correct.

He knows that a drag of his nails up Peter’s trouser leg will cause his thighs to part, just wide enough in the small pace. He does so, and knows that Peter wishes Elias were not here. Peter wishes he, himself, were not here. He would rather be nowhere else.

Elias runs his hands under Peter’s robes, quiet as a breath, up his shins to his knees. Peter looks very good in black, Elias notes, though his shoes could do with a shine. He presses forward. He’d like to live here, he thinks. He would. Right here between Peter’s knees, fantasizing about bruises on his own. He rucks Peter’s cassock up his thighs, reaches for the front of his trousers underneath, sharp points of his nails catching in the fabric. He grasps at his belt.

The penitent woman confesses that she has lied. Elias, too, has lied. He feeds the end of Peter’s belt through its loop, unclasps the buckle, thinks briefly of being struck with it, and is stopped from doing anything further by Peter’s hand tangling into his hair, wrist slotted perfectly beneath the curve of a horn. He grips hard, a strong fistfull at the back of Elias’ head, and yanks. It hurts. Elias’ grin splits a bit in the corners.

Peter hauls him up. There’s not far to go in the cramped little cabinet, but Peter drags him in close, huffing a breath into Elias’ face. Elias is close enough to inhale it, to take it as his own and never give it back. Peter sneers at him. The line of his jaw is tight, but he knows that Elias’ throat will be as well.

The woman falters in her confession. She’s heard nothing but the rustle of fabric, and her resolve shakes beneath the weight of her sins. Steeped in shame, she is. Elias can taste it in the air like rain.

“Please, Father…” she says.

 _Please, Father,_ Elias mouths. Peter’s hand twists in his hair. Elias bares his teeth in silence.

“Go on, child,” Peter says. His voice is low, sticky with encouragement and disinterest — in her, Elias knows. In her. He stares at the glint of Elias’ canines because he cannot stomach his eyes.

“Nothing is hidden before God,” Peter says, “Please, continue.”

And he releases Elias with a shake — what _fun_ his Peter can be. Elias tucks his tongue into the corner of his mouth, settles back on his heels. The woman sighs deeply. She presses her brow to the partition, so very close, and Peter shys away. Shirked even by her own shepherd. Peter does not look away from Elias’ mouth in the dark.

Elias finds his belt once again. He waits for the woman to continue speaking before popping the button on Peter’s trousers, drawing down his zipper. Let her sins bury this one. Another thing to lay bare before God. If only she knew. Elias pushes at Peter’s robes, squeezes his thigh with the soft pads of his fingers. Peter plants his feet and lifts his hips, just enough to be helpful. Elias is pleased. He leaves the cassock bunched around Peter’s hips, draws his trousers and briefs down.

Peter’s cock is soft, lying prone in its curls. It’s only fair, Elias supposes. Win some, lose some. And win some, and win some, and win some. He leans forward, wedges himself tight between Peter’s legs, and pushes his nose down into the crease of pubis and thigh. Peter is warm here. Warm and thrumming. His pulse is there, wrapped in muscle and bone and twisted faith. Elias can feel it. Smell it as he inhales. Taste it as he presses his tongue to it.

Peter’s hand finds his head again. Softer, this time. Winding. Petting. Between his horns where his hair is thickest, and Elias noses inwards. Through the dark, coarse fur of him. Until there is nothing in his lungs but Peter’s air and Peter’s scent. Peter squeezes him with his thighs. His knees dig into Elias’ ribs.

The woman has lusted. Elias, too, has lusted. Is lusting. Hungrily, greedily. He is salivating, and Peter’s cock twitches against his cheek. His fingers flex in Elias’ hair when he turns his head. Half-mast. Fine.

Elias wets his lips, Peter’s eyes on him like something burning. He opens his mouth and Peter breathes deep, holds it, makes the smallest, quietest noise when Elias finally gets his mouth on him. Like a sigh. Like it hurts. Maybe it does, Elias thinks, sucking wet marks up the length of his hardening cock. It doesn’t, Elias knows, wrapping his hand loosely around the base of it, dragging his tongue against the opening of his foreskin. He pushes it back, fingers and lips, and the head pops free shiny and red. He laps at it, tastes salt, and Peter’s breath comes heavy.

He is trying to be quiet. He keeps them perched in his throat, his noises. Precious, precarious little things tucked close beneath his chin. Elias is trying, too. He kisses at Peter’s glans, open-mouthed and hot, and Peter’s head thumps gently against the wall of the cabinet.

“Father Lukas,” the woman says, “I don’t understand– How am I meant to overcome this? ”

Peter tenses. Stiffens all over. Elias smiles into his skin, teethes just barely at the softest part of him.

Peter closes his eyes — finally, he is thinking, _finally_ — and inhales once through his nose. He pulls at Elias’ hair. Elias presses his tongue flat.

“Desires of the flesh are sins, indeed,” he says, down low and quiet, sounding thoughtful, but his cock jerks and his fingers wind tight and his brows draw close, “But we are more– more than simple flesh.” Elias cups his balls in his hand, squeezes until he hears the hitch in Peter’s breath. “We are willful things. The flesh is flawed,” — not from where Elias is sitting — “but we are… _perfect_ in our potential. As God deemed us,” Peter opens his eyes, hooded, dark, and looks down, “In His image, and all that. Look to Him; find yourself.”

There’s a silence. One beat, two. Elias stills where Peter doesn’t, eyelids and lungs and hands.

“Strange counsel, Father,” the woman says. She sounds amused.

“Strange world,” Peter says. He pets absently at the base of Elias’ horns, and Elias envelopes the head of his cock in his mouth in one smooth, silent motion — just to feel the dig and scrape and claw of his nails in his scalp. Just to hear the noise he bites off between his teeth.

“That was all,” she continues, “Thank you, Father Lukas.”

Yes, Elias thinks, _thank you,_ Father Lukas.

“Al– Alright, then.” Elias sucks at him, round and perfect in his mouth, bitter where his tongue glances across his slit. Peter’s hips jerk upwards, and Elias tightens around him, pins him with a hand on his hip.

“Alright,” Peter says again. Sweat has begun to bead across his brow. “In the name of the Father, and of the S–”

“No,” the woman interrupts, “The renewal, please.”

Elias likes her suddenly very much. He finds Peter’s eyes in the dark, watches with rapt attention as he struggles. Struggles under the weight of a sacrament he no longer finds holy, the promise of God who knows not what it means. Strung up so very tight, his Peter is. Nailed wrong-ways-up to a cross of his own false faith. Peter opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. Elias wonders: does he remember the words he is meant to speak? The pardon he is meant to pass? Yes, Elias knows, he does. He will never forget. Elias sinks his mouth down further along Peter’s cock. Let him never forget this, either.

“God…” Peter begins, loses himself, begins again, “ _God_ , Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins.” His skin is smooth and textureless against Elias’ tongue, hard against his palate as he takes more of him in. Levers himself down, drooling, until Peter can feel his throat. Until he feels Peter in his throat. And the prayer, too, he feels. Prickling and needling and stinging along his skin. Under it. Down into his bones where it writhes. His fingers flex around Peter’s hip, as Peter’s do in his hair.

“Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace,” Peter’s voice wavers. He grits his teeth, the lines of him hard and sharp. “I absolve you from your sins,” he says, “in the name of the Father,” — and it burns beneath Elias’ fingernails, but he does not scratch — “and of the Son,” — and it aches in the roots of Elias’ teeth, but he does not bite — “and of the Holy Spirit,” Peter finishes — and it pulses in the joints of Elias’ jaw, so close to where Peter’s cock pulses, too, and Elias decides that he will keep it. Just for a moment. Keep the pain and delight in it. Because it comes from Peter, a gift not given but received, nonetheless, and because it is everything.

“Give thanks to the Lord,” Peter says, sighs it out, impatience coiled tight his thighs, “for he is good.”

“His mercy endures forever,” the penitent replies, as is due, and Elias worms his tongue against the shaft of Peter’s cock, pulls off of it, slides his way back down.

“Go,” Peter says. He does not say _in peace_.

Elias listens to Peter breathe in the quiet and the dark, spit-slick in the corners of his mouth, wet and warm and easing down his chin. There’s a rustle of clothing, the creak of a hinge, the open and shut of the confessional door on the other side of the partition. Modest heels clacking against the marble floor, fading away. And then she is gone — they are all gone and all that is left is Elias on his knees holding Peter in his mouth, Peter in his holy seat fisting his hand in Elias’ hair.

Elias makes a noise from down deep in his chest, touches Peter with his teeth, and Peter breathes out a curse. He yanks at Elias’ hair, vengeful, jerks his hips up. Elias sucks hard and lets him.

“You are a _fiend_ ,” Peter hisses. Elias quite agrees. He hums an approving note, relishes the way it makes Peter’s brows knit together, makes his nostrils flare — and hums another when Peter frees his hand from his hair and wraps it around one of his horns instead.

“Off,” he says, sharp and quick like the snap of a whip. He puts his weight into it, dragging Elias by the horn off his cock, and Elias’ mouth waters, even as they separate and he is left empty and hungry. He keeps pulling until Elias is forced to crane his head back, shuffling backwards on his knees. There’s not far to go. He hits the cabinet door and Peter stands, following after him. His cassock falls from around his waist, bunches against the hard, steep angle of his cock where it stands out from his body, shiny with wet and ruddy-dark. And what a picture his Peter makes, trousers mid-thigh, collar a dash of white at his throat, cock proud and full and red with blood. Elias would like him iconized like this. Just like this. In oil paints and stained glass and marble. Canonized in his unmaking.

Peter scowls — down at the state of himself, at Elias — and gathers up the fabric of his robes, pulling it towards his chin. He pauses, hand hovering at his chest, squinting at Elias’ mouth.

“Open,” he says, voice rough, “and stay.”

Elias opens, and stays, and finds himself charmed. Nothing but commandments in Peter’s new gospel, gold adornments all dried up, pruned away. Elias does not mourn their loss; he thinks these words pretty enough.

And prettier, still, when Peter lifts his cassock up to his mouth, biting down on the hem. Not to gag himself, Elias suspects. And then knows as Peter’s second hand, now free, drops to his other horn.

He steps forward, crowding in. Elias can feel the warmth of him on his face, drops his jaw down a little lower. Peter gives him a jerk, hauls him forward until the head of his cock passes between Elias’ lips once more. Elias moans around him, cut off by another pull, strong and unerring, until Elias is back where he belongs — until Peter is back where he belongs. Jutting at that back of Elias’ throat, wedged there tight and hot. Peter sighs above him, long and low.

Peter’s hands squeeze around the bark of Elias’ horns — once, twice, like a pulse — before he drags his cock back over Elias’ tongue, snaps his hips forward, silky and hard and tasting like salt. Elias’ hands flutter to his thighs, rest there, going limp, hung by his horns in Peter’s fists, held up by the length of Peter’s cock.

Peter fucks him hard, rough, deserved. Fucks him like there is nothing Elias can do about it. Thrusts down into Elias’ throat and uses his horns like handlebars to yank him forward, to force him into it. Elias allows himself to feel it and to gag, passage of his throat closing and flexing and trying to push Peter out, and revels in the way it makes Peter groan and fuck him harder. Like he’s trying to spear him, run him through, core him out.

He drools. It soaks into the hair around the root of Peter’s cock, sopping wet where Elias’ chin meets his balls, stretching and stringing between them when they part. He allows himself to cry, unblinking, warm down his cheeks, and revels in the way it makes Peter watch him. Like he can’t bear to do otherwise. Like the evidence of his taking is sweeter than the taking itself. Elias knows that it isn’t — a close thing, but he weeps anyways, if only for the way it deepens the crease between Peter’s brows, sharpens the lines of his teeth, so very white against the black of his cassock growing damp in his mouth.

It’s what makes Peter come. Elias’ tears meet the corners of his stretched mouth, meet Peter’s cock, impossibly slick, and Peter comes, shoved deep and hot and throbbing. He shudders with it, fists twisting around the girth of Elias’ horns, grunting as his cock pulses and spurts. Elias can feel the muscles in Peter’s thighs quivering beneath his hands, swallows around him once, stays still and pliant as he works through it. Sucks at him when he finally — _finally_ , Peter is thinking, finally — comes to a rest.

Peter pushes him off with his fingers at his brow, dropping his robes from between his teeth and hissing at the last drag of Elias’ tongue. His face is flushed, sweat at his temples, shining like the silver in his hair. He pulls his trousers up, and Elias brushes his hands away to help fasten his belt.

Elias stands just as Peter’s hand falls to his face, thumb tracking through the mess around his mouth, over his cheekbone, smearing it. Peter is thinking that he looks beautiful like this, Elias knows. Peter is thinking that he looks divine like this, Elias knows, moreso than he has ever looked demonic, and Elias smiles at him for it. Peter is thinking that he is wrong, Elias knows, and Elias can’t help but kiss him for it.

He makes a noise, Peter does. Soft, though his hand tugs sharply at Elias’ hair. Elias licks into him, tasting and being tasted. Communion for them both, then. He grins when Peter tugs again.

“Go,” Peter says, there against his mouth.

Elias hums, watches Peter watch him. “In peace?” he asks, delighting in the way Peter’s eyes dilate at the state of his voice.

Peter pets at him, breathes a sigh. He presses his brow to Elias’, stooped and bowed.

“ _Go_ , Elias,” he says, firm now.

And he kisses Elias again.

And Elias laughs at the look on his face (and laughs, and laughs) and goes.


End file.
